


Compass

by nyoka



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bunker Fic, Domestic Fluff, Future Fic, M/M, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-08
Updated: 2013-10-08
Packaged: 2017-12-28 20:54:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/996595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyoka/pseuds/nyoka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><b>a/n:</b> the show premiers today, and i wanted to get in one last bunker!fic.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Compass

**Author's Note:**

> **a/n:** the show premiers today, and i wanted to get in one last bunker!fic.

+

Mornings in the bunker are lazy, mostly. Sometimes they stay in bed past noon, arms and legs wound together, hands pressed against chests, quiet whispers and slowed-down breaths. Sometimes they fuck for hours at a time, so long Dean loses track of the morning, of the hours it takes to move with Castiel, of fucking and being fucked, the relentless search for connection. All Dean knows for sure is that it’s good, whatever this is, and that it feels natural, despite the fact that rarely anything about their lives is _natural_. Truth is, there are places on his body that only Cas has ever known, ever found a way to touch, and be touched by.

+

Sunday evening finds them in one of the recently-discovered treasures of the bunker’s east wing — a private sleeping quarters with a giant bathroom housing a huge antique, cast-iron clawfoot tub. Now, Dean loves the water pressure in the bunker’s main shower room, no doubt about it. But he also _loves_ this tub, the kind of relaxing baths he can take late at night when he’s got a moment to himself, soaking for hours on end.

Cas has also taken to using the tub, in the same way he’s taken to drinking coffee, sleeping late, and stealing Dean’s clothes: with a quiet, and _very human_ self-indulgence that makes Dean a little giddy, a little off-centered, a little quiet himself.

The bathroom is oversized in all the ways most of the bunker’s rooms are, but it’s ornate as well: with shimmering porcelain tiles for the walls, steel fixtures for the basin and tub, and floors made of wide planks of pine. Dean fiddles with the knobs of the bath, adjusting the temperature while Cas sits on the rim of the tub, his lean body lost in the folds of Dean’s robe.

The steam is thick in the air by the time Dean cuts off the tap, and he settles back on his knees as Cas stands and drops his robe to the floor, naked body on full display, head cocked to the side as he eyes Dean. Dean smirks up at him.

"What?" Cas asks, catching Dean’s gaze.

"You’re such a nudist," Dean cracks, his eyes roaming over Castiel’s runner’s thighs, the tight muscles of his abs, the curve of his hipbones.

Cas smiles, like a secret, but doesn’t say anything. Dean stands up and places a hand on Castiel’s back as the other man lowers himself slowly into the tub, one long leg submerging into the warm water, and then the other.

When Cas is comfortably in the tub, body gone lax and still, Dean fights his way out a couple of his own layers — his plaid flannel and grey undershirt — but leaves on his red polka-dotted boxers. He doesn’t plan to follow Cas into the tub this time; instead he kneels beside it, his knees pressing into the soft rug covering the floor as he settles his hand on Castiel’s shoulder.

Dean pulls his hand back as Castiel dunks his head under the water, eventually resurfacing with a soft gasp, and running a hand over his face to clear his eyes. Cas settles back against one end of the tub, head lolling against the edge. As he turns to look at Dean, water droplets shimmer on the curve of his cheeks and lashes.

Cas squints softly and says, “Not getting in?”

Dean reaches out to flick a wet strand of Castiel’s hair away from his forehead. “I wanna just watch you today,” he says with a shrug.

Cas arches a brow, lips curling slowly, and Dean turns around, reaching for the bottle of shampoo they’d left in the corner by the towel stand the last time they’d used this bathroom. He also finds a mason jar on the counter, fills it with warm water from the tap, and places it down beside him as he settles back at the head of the tub.

"Lean forward, Cas," Dean says, reaching out to rest his hand on Castiel’s shoulders and guiding him as he moves his head away from the edge of the tub.

"You like doing this," Castiel says, and there’s fondness in his voice.

Dean smiles to himself, shrugging. “You forget to wash your hair sometimes, dude.”

"Humanity can be burdensome," Castiel says on a soft grumble.

"Good hygiene never killed anybody, Cas," Dean chuckles, pouring the jar of water over Castiel’s hair, getting it nice and damp.

Castiel’s eyes are closed, but his mouth keeps moving. “Actually in 1815, there was a man—”

"You’re my favorite walking Encyclopedia, but dude, " Dean interrupts on a huff. "Hush."

Castiel is in the process of opening his mouth again when Dean dumps another jarful of water over his head, this time smirking as it runs down Castiel’s face in rolling rivulets. The former angel growls, blinks his eyes in rapid succession, and turns to give Dean a dangerous glare. One made less so by the sad wet-dog look he’s also got going on.

"My bad," Dean laughs, placing the jar down, picking up the shampoo, and squirting the soap into his hands.

Castiel sighs, sounding exasperated. “Please just continue,” he mumbles. “And try not to be _bad_.”

Dean chuckles, squelching his palms together before leaning in and running two soapy hands through Castiel’s wet hair, sliding his fingers from hair root to tip. “It’s getting so long,” he observes. “Maybe I can give it a cut this week?”

"Then what would you grab onto when we’re having sex?" Castiel says, voice matter-of-fact.

Dean pauses mid-way in reaching for the bottle again, nods. “Okay, good point, dude.”

He grabs the bottle, and Cas is quiet as Dean squeezes another dollop of shampoo into his palm, the faint scent of coconut filling the air between them. He works it into a lather in Castiel’s hair, smiling as Cas closes his eyes, humming.  

"I take it _you’re_ enjoying this?” Dean says, smiling as he sinks his fingers between the dark strands, massing down deep into the scalp.

"You are very skilled with your hands," Castiel says, continuing to hum, obviously happy. "In all things."

"You know it," Dean says, thinking about the things he’d like to do to Cas with his hands. For now, this is good though, even if his knees ache a bit, and his fingertips are wrinkling up. Dean slides his hands in firm strokes over Castiel’s skull, learning the shape of it. His fingers slide gently against his hairline, slicking soap away from his face. When Dean’s done, he rinses Castiel’s hair with several jarfuls of water, watching the streams of soapy water slip down across Castiel’s cheeks, his neck, his collarbone.

That finished, Dean grabs a towel and dabs at Castiel’s face, rubbing the smooth cloth down his cheek. Castiel blinks his eyes open and looks over at Dean.

"Thank you," he says, voice quiet, relaxed.

"Anytime," Dean says.

+

Dean catalogues the new things about Castiel.

Cas likes to walk barefooted around the bunker, his toes sinking into the carpet of the foyer, sliding against the cool, bare wooden planks of the library.

Cas loves dark roast coffee with chicory, a taste he picked up on their last hunt, tracking a fallen angel in the swamps outside of New Orleans.

Castiel likes raw honey on his biscuits, and apricot preserves on his toast.

Cas likes to stir his coffee with a knife, his oatmeal with a fork, and his rice with a spoon.

Cas likes Spanish telenovelas, which he’ll translate for Dean in whispered solemnity, giving the gritty details about how _Isabel betrayed Felix, and how her evil twin sister is now having Felix’ son Ricardo’s baby_.

Cas likes watching the leaves on the trees turn yellow and red and begin to fall, and he likes watching Dean rake them, and he’s always kind of quiet and a little sad when he does this, like there’s something there he can’t talk about, and Dean knows enough not to push it.

Cas likes pie, every single flavor, and that right there, well, that’s enough for Dean to ignore most of his idiosyncrasies.

On Sundays, Cas likes to take long showers and read long books. He nestles in the big leather chair in the living room, while Dean starts up the record player, spinning oldies, the soft crackle of Miles Davis spilling into the room as they relax together.

With the winter coming on, and the bunker cool and drafty, Cas has taken to wrapping himself in layers upon layers, in old t-shirts and flannels and hoodies, and those damn fugly Cosby sweaters he’d seen fit to liberate from the recesses of the Salvation Army one weekend. Dean long ago learned it’s not worth arguing with Cas over his taste in clothes, and instead Dean’s found a certain fondness for the fraying red-and-purple striped sweater in particular, which is too big and too stretched out, neckline falling around Castiel’s shoulders and sleeves hanging past his wrists. But the sweater is warm and snuggly, and Dean always finds a reason to pull Cas closer on the couch when he’s wearing it, like when they were watching _Godzilla_ together on Monday night, necking like teenagers in between battle scenes.

+

In all honestly, most days they’re more like horny teenagers than grown men, finding every secret nook and cranny of the bunker to fool around in. Moving from the kitchen to the bedroom to the closet to the parlor, kissing and fucking and breathing each other. In a mystery room they haven’t named yet, Dean sucks Cas down hard and fast, hungry for his every taste, and when Cas pulls out, he comes in thick spurts all over Dean’s face, shouting loud into the quiet of the room.

They’re a mess, but they can’t help it most of the time, jerking each other off in between biting kisses. Tasting the salty tang of their own come on each other’s skin is like an addiction. Some days, it’s the two of them fucking outside in the woods, out in open but no one there to see. Afterward, they lay on their backs and watch the sky, and Cas will talk about falling, about his first battle, about galaxies imploding and the long arc of creation. And Dean will talk about sitting in the dust on the side of a desert road, the Impala broken down and his belly empty, about his Dad’s Johnny Cash collection, and about that time he honest-to-God saw Big Foot in the mountains of Northern Cali.

Dean learns Castiel’s soft parts. For years he’d only known Castiel’s hard edges, the parts of him that would strike out, cut, and sharpen in protection. Dean knew the armor Cas had worn as a soldier. He remembers the way their hard parts would clash together; spark. But in bed at night, now it’s a new kind of clashing: tongues and hands and legs and hearts. It’s the gentleness after the battle, Castiel stroking Dean’s brow, until Dean’s eyes close, until he falls asleep, and the nightmares didn’t bother either of them.

"Cas," Dean whispers to him one night, when they’re curled up together after a a very aerobic groping session. They’re wrapped in a blanket and holding steaming mugs of coffee. "We’re getting old, dude. Actually, I’m not sure how old I really am. So maybe we’re already old."

Castiel’s lip twitches. “Well, _I_ am quite old.”

"Good thing I think older guys are hot," Dean snorts. "Even though you are kind of a cradle robber."

Cas places a palm along Dean’s cheek and says, “It’s true that you are but a tiny glimmer in my very long timeline, but you by far are the most significant.”

"Stop with the sweet talking," Dean grumbles. He takes their mugs and places them down on the table, and then launches himself into Castiel’s arms. He fumbles with Castiel’s shirt buttons, leaning in to press a kiss along his stubbly chin. "At least prove to me you can still get it up, old man," he goads.

Cas laughs, takes Dean’s wrists and levers him down onto his back on the couch. Castiel’s weight is warm and solid above him, and Dean groans as Cas rubs their bodies together. “I can definitely get it up,” Cas says, voice low and rough.

"Show me," Dean whispers, and Cas does.

The former angel is heavy in his arms, the weight of him something Dean’s come to need more than anything. Cas presses Dean down into the couch, and Dean locks his ankles at the small of his back, his hands resting at the back of his neck.

It’s all movement after that, their pants pulled down, cocks slicked with spit; they match each other thrust for thrust, and like always, they fuck with their eyes open, lost in the slow slide in and out, the warmth, the friction.

Cas takes Dean in his arms afterwards, whispers something about this all being worth it, this love and freedom and free will and choice, and Dean can’t be sure, but he thinks maybe they’re both the most honest with each other when they’re like this, during the soft privacy of sex, in the press of their warm bodies. When there’s nothing left to hide from each other, not when they’re covered in dried come and sweat, faced with the sticky remains of their joining.

Dean pushes his face into Castiel’s neck, breathes him in, digs his fingers in his hips, whispers, “You were worth it, Cas.” He says it even though he’s feeling vulnerable, feeling raw and cut open.

Castiel cups his cheek with a gentle hand. Says, “As were you.”

+

"Why’d you come back?" Dean had asked Cas once, when they were sitting on the hood of the Impala on a dirt road somewhere outside of Topeka. The lights were fading all around them, night coming on in slow paces.

"You needed me," Castiel had said, the reflection of the evening sky in his old, tired eyes.

“ _Cas_ ,” Dean had whispered. 

"And I needed you," Castiel had said, voice low and whispered, like it’d been a secret. "We needed each other."

+

Cas is a menace in the kitchen, boiling pots topping over on the stove, clumps of flour stuck in his messy, dark hair, his sticky footprints winding across the tile floor, and splotches of batter dripping down the front of the counter. He refuses to cook from recipes, preferring to _feel_ the food, to talk to it, to commune with it and figure out what form it most desires to be in before it enters their bellies.

Dean wants to tease him, because it’s kind of adorable, a fallen angel turned top chef. But really, all Dean wants to do is watch him, his fumbling graceless dance in front of the stove, hands so used to doing battle now trying to battle back the tides of beef stew.

Once, in a fit of insanity, Cas tried to exorcise a lemon meringue pie after it had sent the oven smoking. He sprinkled the charred top with holy water and whispered a Latin exorcism over its decomposing corpse. Nothing could save it, though. The next day, Cas drew runes and protective sigils over the stovetop, and it’s funny because Dean thinks the oven actually seems to work better now, the food tastes sweeter, the baked goods more evenly cooked.

If Cas is a picky cook, he’s an even pickier shopper. Eyes squinted, eyebrows knit together in concentration, he’ll spend hours in the bakery section of Wholefoods, inspecting each loaf of fancy organic bread, looking for the perfect one to go alongside Dean’s chicken parmesan.

Dean loves this about him. Or maybe he just loves him. And not just because Cas saved him too many times to count, or saved Sammy, or because Cas is his friend, his family. Dean loves him because he’s _Cas_ , and they’re both kind of fuck-ups of epic proportion, and they sorta kinda go together like vanilla ice cream and apple pie. Or Ben and Jerry. Whatever.

Dean loves the way they always burn breakfast because they’re too busy making out on the kitchen counter, and he loves the way Cas laughs when Dean gets flour in his hair and whip cream on his crotch. Dean loves the way he’s never been able to hide anything from Cas, and how he’s never wanted to.

+

Dean kisses Cas on a Tuesday morning, over a plate of burnt pancakes, the taste of maple syrup sweet on Castiel’s lips, on his tongue.

Cas turns his head, mouth catching at the stubble on Dean’s jaw, stealing a taste himself. “Sorry for burning the pancakes,” Cas whispers, and Dean wants to laugh because at least it’s not breaking the world. They fuck up in more mundane ways these days.

"I’m the one who started with the kissing," Dean says, sucking a kiss against Castiel’s neck.

Cas tilts his face, slots their mouths together, his tongue tracing a line of wet heat along Dean’s lips. He whispers, “And I started with the groping.”

"True," Dean laughs against Castiel’s mouth; he laughs because they’re reckless and Sam and Kevin probably hate them for defiling most of the bunker, but Dean doesn’t care, not when he is leaning into the vee of Castiel’s legs, and he is kissing Cas, and Cas is kissing him back, and the world’s not ending (yet) and all they need to do right now is buy more eggs at the market and more toothpaste at the Dollar Store, and more jackets for the winter, and buy more lotion because Castiel’s hands are getting calloused from working with them so much, and right now Dean’s friggin’ purring into Castiel’s mouth as he works them into his hair.

This thing between them. It’s so…crazy good.

But it’s a lot of other things too.

It’s Tuesday morning’s charred pancakes. And it’s Saturday night’s bickering over _The Thing_ vs.  _The Blob_. It’s Sunday morning’s sparring session turned into frantic wall sex. It’s fighting and fucking, sometimes at the same time. It’s tweed sweaters pulled over band t-shirts, and it’s cleaning up come stains from the back seat of the Impala. It’s Sam and Charlie and Kevin all giving them bottles of lube for Christmas.

It’s probably wrong, and it wasn’t meant to be, and it’s damn near impossible sometimes, but Dean thinks this might be the first right thing he’s done in a long time, and he cannot believe Cas is here doing it with him.

Castiel, ancient and new at the same time, familiar except for all the ways he’s different, all the new pieces of himself he’s trying to put together, lining up his edges just so, with Dean somehow still fitting there, at his center.

More than anything, it’s this moment: the way Cas presses his face against Dean’s neck, the way his hands move between them, finding that part of Dean that responds only to him.

Dean’s spent his entire life on the edge, and with Cas he finds himself finally falling over, but he’s not scared; he’s never been scared. Cas shudders against him, his mouth opening against Dean’s, and Dean closes his eyes, falls forward.

Fuck, it’s everything.

_\- fin -_


End file.
